


Strawberry Jam With A Side Of Broken Leg

by lonelymapletree



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Great Depression, Homoerotic subtext, I tried to make it cute and gay but it ended up being angsty, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, bucky likes strawberry jam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelymapletree/pseuds/lonelymapletree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All Bucky Barnes wanted to do was get groceries. Maybe stop by to visit the elderly lady living in the run-down building next to his and Steve's. It wasn’t in his itinerary to defend his roommate from the forces of evil yet again."</p>
<p>Loosely based off the prompt, "You give me a piggyback ride after I get out of a brutal fight and can't stand."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberry Jam With A Side Of Broken Leg

**Author's Note:**

> A somethin-somethin I wrote for Steve's birthday. Happy Independence to all y'all Americans!

Groceries.

All Bucky Barnes wanted to do was get groceries.

It was a nine-block walk to the store, and a nine-block walk back to his and Steve’s apartment. It was at the fifth block going and the fourth block coming back where Bucky so happened to pass a rather sketchy area in their part of the city (as if everything else weren’t sketchy enough), and decided to take a shortcut where he didn’t have to face larger, burlier men coughing cigarette ashes and flexing fists of brick. He had turned left into a quick alleyway (which didn’t bother him as much as it should’ve; he could still stand on his own two feet), and tried to focus on the light at the street opposite and not the sounds of his worn heels clicking and echoing ominously around him.

Tightening his grip on his bags, he persisted onward, considering stopping by the residence of elderly Ms. Gardener, who lived in the run-down building next door and absolutely doted on Bucky and Steve with a mouth more fiery than hell itself. The woman was a devoutly orthodox Catholic who took it upon herself to preach the word of God to the two men so desperately in need of it, so desperately in need of the removal of sin Satan himself shoved in their ears to block out the sound of angels. It took all Bucky had to walk faster, purse his lips and ignore the image of a certain ‘angel’ stirred up within.

It took all he had to stop himself from walking past the sight of two large, burly men coughing cigarette ashes and pounding fists of brick into a small, blond fry who, in the shoes Bucky knew were stuffed with newspaper, swayed and fell on the hard pavement.

All Bucky Barnes wanted to do was get groceries and, maybe, stop by Ms. Gardener’s. It wasn’t in his itinerary to fend his roommate from the forces of evil yet again.

“Jesus H. Christ, Stevie,” the brunet couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of the smaller man, leaning on his hands and knees and breathing heavily. He had dropped the grocery bags on the ground (save for the one containing the milk- he couldn’t afford to buy another carton) when he rushed to save Steve, and now that the adrenaline rush was dying, he could properly mourn the loaf of bread collecting dust as he surveyed the damage done.

Steve’s blond hair was mussed and Bucky could swear he saw the assailant’s fist painted in blood, smeared across the expanse of his hollow cheeks. His oversized coat was stuck between the pull toward the ground, and the rail-thin coat hanger that was Steve’s shoulder. When Steve finally turned to look him in the eye, Bucky could see a nose on the verge of bleeding and breaking, and a cut dangerously far from his chin and closer to his neck.

“Who’s the victim today?” Bucky pressed tiredly, roughly swiping at dust and debris on Steve’s back.

“Just some jerks,” Steve huffed. “Said somethin’ real nasty to a broad and I… you know.”

“Alright, alright,” Bucky dismissed him with a sigh, moving to rearrange the estranged groceries now that he knew Steve could stand on his own two feet. “S’only four blocks ‘ntil we get home, can you walk?”

“Just a scratch Buck, I’m fi- ah!” the soft gasp of pain had Bucky swivelling around, feeling his heart stop at the sight of Steve falling, falling to the ground and landing on his knee with a sickening crunch that reverberated and bounced off the walls of the alley. Time seemed to stop, the only sound Bucky could hear besides the ringing of his ears was the echoed sound of Steve’s pain.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Bucky muttered under his breath, once again setting the milk carton and paper bags on the ground and starting toward his friend. Steve was on the ground, curled up over the presumably broken leg and making the most pathetic whimpering noises that only served to remind Bucky of a hurt baby animal.

“I think it’s broken,” he could hear Steve whisper once he had bent over close enough. At this, Bucky growled something unintelligible to the two of them and, without another word, scooped Steve up in his arms like how a groom would carry his bride (if it were in any other situation, Steve might have been incredibly arrogant), and solemnly made his way to the other end of the alley. With each step, Steve shuddered, almost muted by the damage done to his fragile bones. He risked craning his neck from the cradle of Bucky’s hand to survey the damage done, and did his best not to recoil, sickened by the unnatural angle at which his leg was bent.

“Buck, the groceries…” Steve admonished weakly. At this, the man he was looking up at stopped in his tracks, closed his eyes for a few seconds, probably thinking of a way to get both of his treasures home. It wouldn’t do either of them good to leave them behind; someone could pass through and snatch them. Pursing his lips, Bucky somewhat-shakily maneuvered Steve from his arms onto his broad back, and set backwards. Steve could feel the bumping sensation of Bucky’s purposeful steps, and tried to heave his broken leg around Bucky’s waist so the bouncing wasn’t too unbearable. In doing so, he couldn’t help but feel Bucky shivering at the feeling.

With the groceries in both hands, Bucky awkwardly manoeuvered his elbows to support Steve, and set off to the end of the alley. Every time Steve accidentally let out a breathy groan, Bucky would turn his head to the right, to quietly apologize, give him a few seconds to adjust, and wait for the soft pat on the left shoulder that would set him off walking again. They reached the end of the seventh block before either of them said something.

“Where’d you get money for the groceries?” Steve piped up. His voice echoed in the ear he was talking right into (he had taken to unabashedly resting his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, head lolling to the side). That and the feeling of strain in his arms as he carried said groceries left Bucky unable to speak without huffing every two words. He was fit at his age, though the root of the question at hand was the lack of nutrition the Depression had bestowed upon the two of them. Neither of them were starving, but neither too healthy.

“I work, Stevie,” said Bucky shortly. “You know that.”

“Yeah, sure, but hauling at the shipyard don’t pay as much to other fellas as it seems to be paying you,” Steve remarked, turning to look at Bucky’s jaw as it clenched and unclenched. There was stubble lying under his ear, at the end of his jawline- it had somehow escaped the razor Bucky had carefully put to it the previous morning.

“I work at night,” came the next excuse.

“Doin’ what?”

“Hell, Steve,” Bucky scoffed. “Why d’ya wanna know?”

“Nothin’ illegal, right, Buck?” Steve persisted, and laid his left cheek on the broad shoulder of Bucky’s white collared shirt, forgetting entirely he was still cut at the neck and the blood would leave a stain near Bucky’s shoulder blade. There was no reply from him; he kept on forward, stopping at the crosswalk. He looked right, and then left. They managed what seemed an eternity of eye contact- inquisitive, wide blue peering into the soul behind concerned and tired ice.

“ _Right, Buck?”_ Steve tried again, this time speaking not an inch from Bucky’s lips. Bucky pursed his again, holding his tongue back from swiping across them in response to the proximity of his face from Steve’s. He felt his small, warm breaths on his lips, and twisted his eyes shut before wrenching his head to face forward.

“Yeah, Stevie,” he replied breathily, starting the walk across the street.

“So what _are_ you doing?”

“Christ, Rogers!” Bucky exclaimed, flexing his arms around the grocery bags. “Nothin’ illegal, alright? It’s just side money I win at bars. Can we let it go?” He stopped himself from walking at a faster, rigid pace, knowing it wouldn’t help Steve’s broken leg much at all. Steve pouted at the silence, pondering the notion. He shifted his unbroken leg around Bucky’s waist, seeing as it had started to slack off and was falling to rest on his hip. Pressing his bony knee into Bucky’s side resulted in a moan of discomfort, surprising the both of them. Steve hurried to apologize, straightening his neck to no longer rest on Bucky’s shoulder. Following a few moments of furrowed eyebrows and hard thinking was the next question.

“How’re you winning it?”

“Poker, mostly,” Bucky admitted, finally deciding that there wasn’t any point in hiding anything from Steve anymore. He had been through enough that day; there wasn’t any use in fighting the insistent little soldier latched onto his back.

“You ever get beat up for winning?” Steve asked quietly, and by the tone of his voice Bucky knows he isn’t asking out of curiosity, instead out of concern and knowledge. It was as if he already knew the answer. Truth be told, Steve, in fact, did. What gave it away was the bruise on Bucky’s side, agitated when Steve purposefully pressed his knee into it.

“What’s it to you, Rogers? We’re getting money, we’re able to eat more, and that’s that.” They turned the corner on the last block, finally completing the nine-block journey that started with one man and three dollars, ending with a cracked thing of strawberry jam and a broken leg.

“Well, it ain’t worth it if you’re getting hurt because of it,” Steve shot back, handing Bucky the key. He paused at this, and turned again to look at Steve. The blond held an expression that meant to scold him, but all he saw was the worry in those blue eyes- worry that he had caused. Steve wasn’t supposed to know about the gambling; he knew it would make him feel something for leaving most of the working to Bucky. It was hard to keep appearances around him, especially since he was so damn perceptive. He could note the marks he left on Bucky and rightfully be suspicious when the next night he showed up with more after a hefty win gone wrong.

“It’s worth it, Steve,” Bucky was near a whisper now, somewhere within seething anger at himself and everything. Steve could hardly make out the words escaping Bucky’s lips. He unlocked the door best he could and set the bags down, carrying Steve inside with his large, calloused hands cautiously embracing his thighs. Steve made a noise, small and unidentifiable, the result of the sensations of a broken leg and the way the taller of the two was gently setting him down on the beat-up mattress they shared. Steve inhaled deeply, this time purely because of the pain in his leg. Frankly, he was surprised he hadn’t passed out yet, or at least undergone a serious asthma attack.

“You gonna call a doctor?” he asked weakly, watching Bucky make his way back out for the groceries. Bucky paused at the doorway, lip rolling between his teeth in thought. The question hung over both their heads, like a dark cloud. Calling a doctor meant money, and money to Bucky meant longer hours at the yard and in bars with men twice his size and three times as aggressive.

“Yeah.”

“Where’re you gonna get the mone-”

_“For fuck’s sake Steve!”_ Bucky growled, whirling around to face him. Steve could hear it this time; no level of deafness could drown out the irritation written on his friend’s tired face. “I’m getting the money- I’ve been doing it for weeks now, I know what I’m doing! It’s not like I can’t handle my own, clearly unlike some of us!” With a calm rage Steve knew to fear, he stormed outside to collect the grocery bags.

Letting his head fall onto the pillow, Steve stared up at a ceiling blurred by his tears, only to stubbornly wipe them away. He had no reason to be crying like a child, so why was he? The answer was clear- Bucky didn’t need Steve like Steve needed him. They were best friends, sure, and nothing would change that (besides, maybe, a fatal disease only Steve would be vulnerable to), but while Bucky had a family and a job-and-a-half, Steve had two dead parents, no close immediate relatives, an unofficial, fleeting job as a commissioned artist, and a list of illnesses longer than the list of people who cared about him. Bucky was right- he couldn’t handle his own, especially with a habit for fighting crime.

It took too long for Bucky to walk back in with the bags, though Steve took into account that he looked much less cross, so he concluded that he must have taken time to breathe away from him. The thought of once again being a pain to the one closest to him struck a pain in his chest, made worse by whatever happened to be going on there. Bucky seemed to notice Steve’s grimace once he had set down the cracked jar of strawberry jam, and hesitantly set over to sit at the edge of the mattress.

“Look, Stevie-”

“No, Buck,” Steve sighed, weakly shifting his body closer to his friend, “I’m sorry. I just get worried, yanno… when you leave at night an’ I dunno if you’re gonna come back in shape, and you have hard work the next morning and I have to wander around looking for something that’s gonna pay at least a fraction of what you’re gettin’. And it just kinda gets me all grummy, right? I-”

“Alright, _alright,”_ Bucky interrupted him, “Jesus, Stevie, you sound like that dame I used to be with in school. Always apologizing, worrying about me, always pickin’ at the dirt on my coat.”

“Louise?” Steve let out a laugh. “Yeah, she was real goofy for you, Buck.” A moment of silence passed between the two of them, staring into the other’s eyes, trying to read the other’s expression. Steve seemed at peace, having let his heart and soul out to Bucky, who passively let his fingers drum against Steve’s palm.

“Those girls, they were real great,” Bucky started, voice shaking ever-so-slightly. “But it came and went. It was you who was there for me all the time, through the breakups, through the dates, through now. C’mon, Steve, you’re my best friend. We gotta stick together, you ‘n me. If that means playing at some pubs for extra coins, then sure. Because now we’ve got milk, eggs, a loaf of fluffy bread, and jam. _Jam,_ Steve.”

“Where’d you get the bread?” was all Steve could muster under the revelation of Bucky’s speech.

“A bit farther than the bank. That bakery that sells the really sweet lemon pound cake. I got some of that too.”

“You’re a sap, you know,” Steve snorted, granting Bucky a small grin. Bucky’s lips twitched, fingers moving from Steve’s palm to his neck, absentmindedly scratching at the blood dried just beneath his chin.

“And you’re a jerk, but we can still share the pound cake.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading; apologies if it seems out-of-character because I don't usually write serious stuff. Constructive criticism is welcome.


End file.
